


watching the water rise (and fall again)

by sunbeamruins



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Season/Series 01, Time Loop, this is a break-it-and-then-eventually-fix-it fic, what's the opposite of a fix-it fic? a break-it fic?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26100826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbeamruins/pseuds/sunbeamruins
Summary: A hospital bed, a bag of seedless grapes, a medical exam. Or, this is the one where it takes longer for Alec Hardy to solve Broadchurch.But that’s fine, because he has all the time in the world.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Ellie Miller (eventually)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	watching the water rise (and fall again)

**Author's Note:**

> time sure has been passing, hasn't it? title once again nicked from a song, this time [Escape Plan by Tigers Jaw](https://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ)

Awareness came gradually; the images of Danny and Pippa faintly imprinted in his consciousness eroding away, replaced by dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through the blinds of an unfamiliar room. The sunlight was the only cheery thing in the room, slow blinks revealing white walls just as cold and clinical as the stench even the cannula couldn't block.

A muted thump drew his attention to the side of the bed, where Miller stood. Swimming in the center of his vision, her features seemed to blur and twist before righting themselves. As much as he'd like to blame that on the drugs, lately they'd been working to produce the exact opposite effect.

The image brought memories of the previous night floating back—the call, the chase, the boatyard—answering half-formed questions he hadn't had the chance to ask yet. They'd been so close to catching the killer; that alone would've made winding up back in the hospital worth it. 

A dizzying glance down showed the thump to have been some sort of bagged object Miller set down.

"What are those?"

"Grapes." 

Her answer fit as his vision slowly sharpened. "What did you bring grapes for?"

"Hoped you might choke on the seeds," she bit out.

"They're seedless." His throat was parched and the words came out hoarse, making what would've been a snappy rejoinder merely a weak observation.

"Don't be a smartarse." She pulled back from where she was standing over him, settling into the visitor's chair placed near the foot of the bed. Her arms were crossed as tight as the frown on her face. The added distance gave him a chance to observe her. She was still bundled up in her coat—the dark one, not the eyeburningly bright one she tended to use on call outs. Had she stayed here all night?

"I'm sensing you're angry with me." It was an understatement. Miller looked properly angry, the sort he'd noticed she didn't allow herself to get, unless it's been directed at him.

"You nearly died on me," she said.

"No." His denial was reflexive. 

"No, you did. They told me."

"They can't do that." Panic began to well up in his chest, joining the near-constant throb of pain from his ill-beating heart. 

"They told me you'd been here before, discharged yourself against their advice. Heart arrhythmia. You should've told me." Miller wielded the information she'd gained like a weapon, slashing his denial to pieces before it was fully formed, his hopes for an easy conversation along with it.

The little ball of panic had grown larger with every word out of her mouth, working its way up his throat. He swallowed it down with a liberal coating of annoyance. "Bloody hell, is there no privacy here?"

"Can't they fix you?" she asked, and if he didn't know better he'd think she cared. 

"No." She already knew too much. 

"What do you mean no? Can they fix you or not?"

"It's not up for discussion."

She clicked her tongue in disgust. "So, what, this all a minor inconvenience?"

"I'm fine, Miller. We're close. That was the killer last night. I can still do this." It might've come out more convincingly if just moving his head to look her in the eye hadn't set off a new wave of lightheadedness. 

"You're a bloody piece of work." She moved to leave, chair skidding back as she headed to the door.

"Miller, please. Don't tell the Chief Super. Miller. Miller!" His pleas, slowly growing more frantic the further she got, went unheeded. He didn't stop until the door swung shut with a definite click. 

There was a non-zero chance she was reporting into the station.

He collapsed back into the pillows, conserving his slowly growing strength. Just a little longer and he'd head after her.

⧗

"You should be in the hospital." Miller cornered him in the hallway mere moments after he exited the lift.

He groaned internally. She must have had someone at the front desk waiting to warn her as soon as he arrived. "Well, I'm not," he gritted out.

"Clearly."

Hardy noted the door she'd appeared from as the one they'd been using for Susan Wright yesterday. "Good idea," he awkwardly changed the subject, indicating with a small nod of his head. 

"I don't know why I even try," Miller said with a shake of her head, storming back into the interrogation room.

Inconvenient. Her anger would make solving the case that much harder, but he _had_ been telling the truth. The time they had left to hold Susan Wright had been incessantly ticking down, one of the first fresh leads they've had in weeks slowly turning rancid. 

Hand hovering over the doorknob to CID, Hardy subconsciously straightened up. He'd wasted enough time lying about in a hospital bed and arguing with well-meaning yet irritating nurses. And there was still damage control to do, finding out what and to who Miller's let information slip.

The answer was the whole station, the usual bustle of the room grinding to a halt as he stepped in. He stood there for a moment, frozen by the silence of their assessing gaze. The makeshift stand-off broke before his carefully crafted neutral expression did, officers pointedly shifting their attention back to the tasks at hand. Uncomfortable memories from Sandbrook reared their head as he crossed over to his office, eyes following him until he shut the door. 

It didn't stay shut for long, Jenkinson welcoming herself in before he was able to fully close the blinds. He fumbled with the strings still tangled in his fingers, delaying as long as he dared, before turning to face her. 

She had that same slightly smug, I-know-what's-best-for-you look plastered on her face that had appeared during their conversation at the start of the case. "Alec."

He suppressed the flinch at his first name. 

"Care to explain what happened last night?"

The arguments constructed on the cab ride over hadn't accounted for this. There was no way this was anything but a trap, no way to go but forward. "We got a call reporting movement in the area of the crime scene, which we believed to be the killer. When we reached the hut on Briarcliff, Miller was assaulted and the suspect took off running. We pursued him to the dockyards, where he bolted again. During the chase I—" Hardy hesitated, trying to find a way to word it gently, "—suffered from a complication."

Jenkinson's raised eyebrow expressed her doubt. He knew the explanation wasn't sufficient, biting the inside of his lip to keep himself from fidgeting under her scrutiny. 

"I've referred you to the Chief Medical Officer, first thing in the morning." She glanced around the room, taking in the piled statements and stacks of evidence. "I was going to suggest getting a head start on packing, but it seems like that might not be necessary."

Her words rushed over him like a dull roar, a rip current knocking down the fragile sandcastles of the life he'd been rebuilding and dragging him back into the endless limbo he'd barely escaped. He could only nod in response, chest deflating with the breath he didn't know he was holding. Resolutely squashing down the part of him screaming that it was unfair, that he could still do it, he accepted that this fight had been over long before it had begun. But cases don't solve themselves, and they certainly don't tie themselves up nicely with a bow. He wasn't quite out on his arse yet, and that was all he needed to keep pushing through.

Jenkinson paused at the door, "Why did you even come here? Why take the job when you knew you were unwell?"

"Wasn't so bad, at first," he said with a shrug. "And then it seemed like a small price to pay. Didn't want to let another family down."

She contemplated his answer. 

"Still don't have to if you keep me on the case."

"Don't push me," she said with a warning finger, "I can still schedule that medical sooner," as she finally headed out. 

Jenkinson gone, Hardy finally settled behind his desk. The cuff of his jacket caught on the forgotten hospital band, digging the sharp plastic edge into his wrist. Draping it over the back of his chair, he worked at the band with his teeth, glancing over the scattered files from last night, praying there was something he'd missed. 

He didn't find anything new, but there was a file. One he had dismissed earlier, piled with the rest of the information deemed irrelevant. Sighing in resignation, he set it aside.

There was also the matter of what he'd missed from the morning. He looked out at the desks, desperately attempting to recall an officer's, any officer's, surname. Perhaps limiting his contact to mainly Miller had been a mistake. Her natterings hadn't helped much with this either, insistent on referring to everyone by first name. He might not be the most sociable but even he knew calling a coworker "you" wasn't exactly appropriate, particularly close to two months in. 

Popping back into his office, he scanned the names littered across the different reports—Abbott, Wallis, Clemens, Stroud, Grant—hoping one would ring a bell. It would've been easier if they hadn't been losing officers as steadily as a boat gaining water from a leak over the past week. He suppressed a snort at a passing thought about captains and sinking ships, realizing he would just be the next casualty of a waning investigation.

Focusing on the name on a report from just last night—Clemens, a safe enough bet—he tried to match the name with one of the faces from the daily briefings. Young blonde, quiet but serious enough, took notes. 

He weighed his options carefully. On one hand, Miller was still angry from the hospital, and pulling her from an interrogation would do nothing to improve her mood. On the other hand, he could make a fool of himself in front of all CID. 

Sighing and heading back out, he made his decision. It wasn't like he'd have to face them much longer if he got it wrong.

"Clemens."

The young man he had in mind looked up in surprise. 

"My office." 

"Yes, sir," Clemens said, approaching warily.

Hardy didn't bother getting comfortable, leaning back against his desk with his arms folded over. "Morning briefing. Get me up to speed."

"Uh, uniforms are still working on finding the dog. They're also checking up on everyone without an alibi for the night of the murder, collecting alibis from last night. El—DS Miller took the lead on the interrogation in your absence. I can grab her—"

"Good. Dismissed." 

Hardy could see the question in his eyes as he hesitated, thought better of it, and then left. Nice to know even though he was dying, he was still intimidating. 

The file he had set aside earlier was sitting front and center, taunting him. He flipped it open and dialed the number inside before he could talk himself out of it. God, he couldn't believe he was doing this. 

The phone only got two rings in before it was picked up.

"Hello?"

"The Latimer case. If you've got anything, meet me in an hour. The third bench past the pier." Hardy hung up before the other person could get a word in edgewise. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a breath and started to methodically make his way through the evidence once again.

⧗

Close to an hour later, Hardy found himself dragging his feet as the bench and the accompanying figure came into view.

He grimaced as he was noticed. No backing out now. 

"You were the last person I expected to call," Steve Connolly said. 

Hearing his thoughts articulated was the last thing he needed. "Really? Thought nothing was a surprise to you." 

"That's very funny. I've never heard that one before." The sarcasm glanced off Connolly, leaving him standing just as steady as the rocks waves were breaking against behind them. He seemed just as patient, content to wait until Hardy would reveal just why he'd been summoned here. 

As much as Hardy would love to leave him waiting long enough to ask—petty as the impulse was—he'd rather not take longer than this needed to be. "The Latimer case. I'll take anything now. I'm running out of time."

To his credit, Connolly looked unsurprised. "I already told you. It was someone he knew, someone close to home."

"But what does that _mean_? Close geographically, family?" In a town as small as Broadchurch _close_ didn't narrow the pool of people at all, everyone uncomfortably intertwined by Hardy's standards.

Connolly shrugged. "That's all I have."

Looking up to the heavens, Hardy sent a small prayer for this to be more than an exercise in frustration. The overcast sky failed to answer in any meaningful way, wind continuing to whip his hair and coat around, bringing in the unpleasant scent of brine. He made a mental note to have a word with whoever said sea air was good for health. Two months and it hadn't done jack. 

"Why should I believe you?" he asked, fixing Connolly with his best glare. "Prove you're not a bullshitter."

Connolly shook his head sadly. "Was the pendant not enough?"

Hardy's lips pressed into a thin line.

This time Connolly took his request seriously, level gaze unsettlingly piercing. "You've been here before."

"What?" Hardy couldn't tell if the little stutter his heart did was from the shock or an indication of something worse.

"You've been here before," Connolly repeated. "I hope this helped." 

There was none of the expected gloating as he simply walked away towards the mundane company car parked further down the road. Hardy watched him go silently, pulling himself back together. 

Connolly turned back, "Oh, and if I were you, I wouldn't worry about time." 

"Did your spirits tell you that too?" Hardy mumbled to himself as he stalked off.

⧗

Hardy had left the station with a stern order to contact him immediately if Miller became free during his absence, yet his phone was staying annoyingly silent no matter how hard he scowled at it, showing no missed calls or texts. There was nothing waiting for him, other than the words that had been close to swimming off the page by the time he had headed out.

As much as he loathed to admit it, a cup of decaffeinated tea and a bag of grapes was nowhere near enough food for 24 hours. The options were few and far between on the walk back, greasy street food and treats intended for tourists or families on a day out. Deciding which was the least likely to make his stomach turn—months of deprivation rendering his digestive tolerance low, on top of the heart issues—was simple. The sad vegetable sides from the fish and chip stand would have to do. 

His hastily pulled together lunch plans a success, his marginally improved mood was quickly put back to rights by the presence of one of his favorite reporters.

"DI Hardy!" Ollie called out. 

"No." With luck the kid would go away.

"You don't know what I want," Ollie said, falling in stride.

"Yeah, but I know the answer's no." Every passing second made it more likely luck had truly abandoned him.

"How are you feeling?"

Hardy reined in a curse as he stiffened at the question. For an officer he should really have better control over his reactions. 

At least his pause caused Oliver to stumble over his own feet in an effort to avoid crashing into Hardy. "I'm fine. I fail to see how this is relevant."

"It's just that you were rushed to the hospital last night. Heart problems."

His thoughts first jumped to Miller before dismissing her. God knows how many people knew already, and she'd not risk leaking to the press again. "Is that what passes for a news story here?"

"Look I don't want to stitch you up—"

"You can't." Hardy cut him off. "I'm gone tomorrow anyway. Feel free to tell your friend Karen that." 

His frank admission caught Ollie off guard enough for Hardy to retreat the few short yards into the station, a glance back through the door showing Ollie looking after him like a forlorn puppy.

If it wasn't going to be tomorrow's headlines, it would've been the day after's. What difference could one day make?

⧗

Miller finally came out as he was leafing through the preliminary results from the skateboard. It was mainly useless. Same traces of domestic cleaning fluid as the body, no prints outside of the elimination prints. Anything from the wheels had likely been contaminated from Tom's ride home, rendering anything from further analysis inadmissible. But the glint in her eye suggested progress was imminent.

"Well?" he asked, straightening from where he was perched against his office doorframe. Not that he had seriously considered that Miller would circumvent his authority, but he'd had enough of rogue DS's this past year to be on guard.

"She claims to be an eyewitness. Says it was Nige Carter on the beach." There was something different about her posture, something serious.

He gave her a curt nod. "Good work. Grab two uniforms and meet me in the garage. I'll call in SOCO." 

The forensic results were forgotten, tossed on the couch as he pulled his jacket back on. Phone pressed against his ear, he dodged his way to the garage while flipping through his notebook to find Carter's address. The adrenaline of the chase was the shot of clarity he'd needed.

Miller was hot on his heels, car chirping its unlock just as he was hanging up. Sliding into the passenger side of her standard-issue black car, he could see the tiny figures of the uniforms she'd collected fan out to a nearby vehicle in the rearview mirror. There was a high chance another patrol car would already be on scene. 

Miller pulled out smoothly, not far behind the flashing lights of the officers ahead. 

"Nigel Carter. What do we know," Hardy asked, hoping her professionalism would win out over any lingering resentment.

She shot him an annoyed glance but answered anyway. "He's a family friend. Works with Mark, was close to Danny. I don't think he could have done it."

"What makes you think that _this_ time?" He could tell his exasperation was barely contained, but couldn't really bring himself to care.

"Susan Wright. It doesn't add up. She said he threatened her with a crossbow."

A crossbow. That was new. "So she frames him for the murder?"

"I don't know," she said, clenching the steering wheel tighter. 

A turn slightly sharper than necessary brought them down the correct street. There was an excess amount of space to pull over despite the other two squad cars, but by the time they made it out Carter was already in handcuffs and being issued his caution. His mother was standing out front, thankfully not resisting but silently crying. 

"Miller. You're...good with people. Get her movements."

She gave him a glare. Perhaps he could have worded that better, but that was why he was sending her over, instead of going himself. 

He chose to loiter out front instead, supervising as Nige was loaded into the back of a police car and sent to the station. Hardy made it clear that he expected Carter to be booked and ready by the time they got back. 

Wandering over to where Miller was, he saw that she had gotten Carter's mum a tissue before beginning to softly question her, one arm lying reassuringly on her back and the other with notebook in hand. 

"Ms. Carter. We'll just be taking a quick look around," he interrupted. 

The two looked up. "Oh, alright," she conceded.

Another relief. It was always better to get permission to poke around, although in this case they technically didn't need a warrant. 

The garage was open from where they had grabbed Nige, blue Latimer plumbing van parked in front. Squeezing by, he gave a cursory poke around—excess storage, a messy worktable, worn fishing gear—nothing too out of the ordinary. One old locker stood out, a padlock on the handles left unlocked. For all the rust dripped down its exterior, it lacked the accumulated grime found in the darker parts of the garage. The handles twisted open smoothly under his hand despite its age, hinges oiled and well-cared for.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

Hunting gear. Including crossbows. 

A small prickle ran up the back of his neck as Connolly's _close_ echoed through his mind. Was this what he had meant?

A sharp bark from somewhere close by dragged him out of his reverie. 

There was a side door he hadn't noticed yet. He opened it cautiously.

Among the mismatched lawn furniture and grass far more verdant than it had any right to be sat the missing dog, tail wagging lazily.

Things were starting to add up, and it was not looking good for Nige Carter. 

"Miller! Station. There's quite a bit we need to talk to Mr. Carter about."

With a last comforting gesture, Miller joined him heading to the car. The neighbors had begun popping out, eager to see the latest commotion on their sleepy residential street. SOCO and the uniforms would deal with the rubberneckers, there was a conversation waiting to happen.

⧗

In a town this small all drives are short, tense silences limited to just under ten minutes. Miller was clearly stewing in some sort of mood, her quick glances over lacking subtlety. It seemed like an altogether different conversation would be happening first, if she chose to say what was on her mind.

He wasn't about to press her to start.

They made it back to the station without incident. Miller shut the ignition but didn't move from the driver's seat. He really didn't have time for this. Hardy tried the door, eager to avoid the oppressive atmosphere that had settled in like a third passenger. He was rewarded with a bruised shoulder to nurse, on top of the rest of his aches and pains. He was stuck until Miller chose to let him go.

"What you did was selfish," she eventually said.

Her words stung, but not for the reason she had in mind. He knew it was selfish, taking this job to try and solve Sandbrook, but that wasn't the reason he had stayed on this case. "Is that all?" he said curtly, in an attempt to not let his hurt leak through. 

"No, it's bloody not. You put yourself at risk. You put the whole investigation at risk. Now we're finally getting somewhere and I don't know what's going to happen."

He resisted the urge to point out that he was really only endangering himself. Something told him that wouldn't help. He mustered a half-shrug. "Someone else takes over as Senior Investigative Officer. You, probably. The investigation continues without me."

"Do you really think that's going to happen?"

He'd been trying not to think about that so much. How many times had he needed to push for things to get done, and done properly? The shock of the crime had gotten the whole station on their toes, but how much longer until they slipped back into their quiet complacency? His silence was an answer in itself.

She deflated, anger seeping out and leaving her tired, the toll of many long nights carving their way across her features. "I can't let that family down. I can't."

"That's what you tell yourself every time. Doesn't make it true, doesn't make it easier."

The doors unlocked with a resigned click.

He made his escape at a measured pace, unwilling to let her know just how uncomfortable their conversation had made him. It wasn't until he was almost at the other end of the garage that he realized she wasn't in step behind him; she was still in the car, bowed over the steering wheel. 

He was just about the last person she'd want around right now; she'd come back in when she was ready.

⧗

The PC's he'd spoken to hadn't proven themselves totally incompetent, hovering over Carter as he made his phone call. Carter seemed to shrink as he noticed Hardy standing there, watching from the other end of the hallway.

Hardy turned and walked away. It'd be good to leave him there, let him sweat for a while. That might make him more willing to talk.

More worrying was the pounding headache that'd been coming and going since he'd forced himself out of bed. The dizzy spells had been small enough to push off for now, but he couldn't afford to look weak in front of a suspect. 

Entering the men's, he took his first look in a mirror since yesterday; same suit extra rumpled from where it had been pulled off and balled to the side at the hospital, same bags that had taken up a permanent residence under his eyes, the haunted edge that never truly left them since the river more present than ever. He reached a hand out to scratch at the unruly stubble that had only gotten more neglected as time marched on, irritating the cuts on his palm from where he had caught himself on the gravel before collapsing fully. The same hand migrated its way down to his chest and pressed down, checking the pulse. Still there. And steady, for now.

There was a slight flutter as the door opened, and he snatched it away. Turning on the faucet, he quickly washed his hands and pushed his way out, past the next occupant.

Gathering what was needed, Hardy made his way to the interview room. He entered the room silently, clearly breaking the seal on the tape in front of Carter and slipping it into the recorder. Nige shifted his weight on the stiff metal chair as Hardy finished setting up for the interview, his solicitor's cold professionalism a stark contrast to his endless fidgeting.

The wait hadn't been all bravado, the small overlap of his arrest and the time they still had with Wright necessitating the call for another solicitor.

Hitting record, Hardy settled into the easy monotony of procedure. "This interview is being tape-recorded and may be given in evidence if your case is brought to trial. The date is the fifteenth of September, 2013 and the time is 3:47 pm. I'm Detective Inspector Alec Hardy. Please state your full name."

"Nige—Nigel Carter."

"Also present is your solicitor. Do you agree that there are no other persons present?"

"Um," Nige's eyes darted between the two of them before he gave a hesitant "yeah."

"Before the start of this interview I must remind you that you are entitled to free and independent legal advice at any stage. You will be given a notice explaining what will be done with these tapes and how to access this recording at the conclusion of the interview." A quick check to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything important, then Hardy launched into the mandatory repeat of the caution, words burned into rote memory over years on the job. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Flipping over to a blank page with a sharp snap, he crossed his arms and settled back. "Run me through your movements on the night Danny died."

"Again?"

"Please."

"Yeah. Um, I was in with my mum, headed out for last orders around ten, came back."

"But that's not what you originally told us."

"No." Nige's hands were worrying each other, folding over and over in a pattern unknown to anyone but him. 

"Why did you lie about your movements?"

"You know why." When Hardy didn't give him any response, Nige continued, "Mark asked me to cover for him. Tell you we went out together."

"Did you know why Mark asked you to cover for him?"

"No, but I know he didn't do it."

"Didn't realize you were the detective in the room." A sharp look from the solicitor told him to rein in the sarcasm. "So you lied to police."

Nige's mouth twisted into an uncomfortable grimace as he realized the corner he had been backed into. Hardy spared a brief thought that maybe he should have brought another officer in with him, as he likely wouldn't be able to fight Nige off if he lunged across the table.

Changing the line of questioning, Hardy pulled out a photo of Susan from his file and slid it across the table at Nige. "Do you know who this woman is?"

"No idea." The way he barely glanced down and immediately tensed up was enough of an indication of a lie. It was far enough cry from his previous inclination to fidget and stutter to raise Hardy's hackles. Perhaps he was a better liar than Hardy had previously suspected. 

"Is this your crossbow?" Hardy asked, pulling out another photo.

"Yeah. Not illegal, is it?" Nige fired back.

"No. Do you own a dog?" 

And there was the shifting again. 

"Not really."

"What do you mean not really? Do you only partially own a dog? Shared custody or something, you only have a dog on weekends?"

"No." Nige's stiff expression cracked, edges of smile working its way into his voice. 

"Is this amusing to you? A dog was found in your backyard. A dog belonging to this woman, who also claims you threatened her with a crossbow. See if you're going to lie, be consistent."

The smile was gone, a small tick replacing it in the corner of his mouth as his temper inevitably grew, as usually was the case in Hardy's presence. "It was a mistake alright?" Nige said. "But it's her who should be here, not me. Harassing me, ever since she got here."

Hardy felt his brow knitting together at the new development. The counter-accusation was nowhere near the level of what had been thrown against Nige, which wasn't how these things tended to go. "What's she been harassing you about?"

Nige curled inwards and pointedly looked away, the impression of a sullen teen more pathetic on his older form. "I don't want to talk about it."

If getting called directly on his lies wasn't enough to get him to talk perhaps a healthy dose of reality would work. He might not be aware of the severity of the situation he had found himself in. 

"You don't want to talk about it. A boy is _dead_ , and Susan Wright says she saw you on the beach, dragging his body off a boat." Hardy knew his frustration over the dragged out case and the new time limit was leaking into his attitude, but at this point he didn't care. The accusations made Nige sit up, eyes widening as he learned exactly what sort of trouble he was in. Applying pressure, Hardy continued, "Did you drag his body onto the beach, Nigel?"

"No—"

"Did you kill Danny?"

"No! He was my best friend's boy!"

"And there's still the issue of your alibi. One was rubbish and the other, well, your mum said you went out at half ten. That was alright then, but it doesn't hold up now." 

"Look, she says she's my mum, alright?" Nige all but shouted, bringing Hardy's rapid-fire questioning to a sudden stop. "Didn't know I was adopted 'til she got here. I don't want anything to do with her but she wouldn't go. The crossbow was a mistake, but I didn't know how else to get her to leave me alone."

Everything past Nige's first exclamation barely registered, Hardy's brain working overtime to try and fit the pieces together. It was useless, clues scattered like multiple puzzle sets jumbled together, reference images long lost. The tangled web of this tiny town was going to do his head in long before his heart had a chance to. Somehow the silence broke through, Carter waiting for his response with a guarded stare. 

"Interview paused," Hardy managed to stumble out, hitting the tape and leaving the room. 

Miller was back at her desk, pen between her fingers swinging back and forth, glossy surface changing colors as it bounced between the computer monitor's harsh light and the fading midday sun.

"Miller!" he called, watching as the makeshift pendulum's rhythm faltered before Miller set it aside. Dragging himself back into the hallway, he leant against the wall as she caught up. 

"What is it?" she asked, arms folded back up, leaning back, unconsciously mimicking his posture.

"Nigel just claimed that Susan Wright said she's his mum. I need you to get back in. See what she says." She'd spent more time with Wright, he reasoned with himself. It had nothing to do with the way Wright had called him on his ability to hold an extended interview yesterday. 

"She's his mum? Then why would she say he did it?"

"Dunno. Ploy to get him to accept her? Either she gets to be in his life or he gets stuck in prison?"

"Right. Well then."

"Go on," he said with a small nod, allowing himself to sag further against the wall as she disappeared into the same room she'd spent the majority of the morning in. Head knocking softly against the drywall, he ran through what he had left to do. There were still the missing hours in Nigel's alibi to clear up, if not a confession to obtain. Biting back a groan, he heaved himself back up and towards the bare room where Nigel was waiting.

Meanwhile somewhere back in his office, his phone gave one last shriveled beep before dying.

⧗

More time with Nige had been both extremely productive and utterly useless. Hardy would be doubting the poaching story more if Nige had proved himself anywhere near a competent liar, thankfully he was on a different continent from that entirely. The details lined up too perfectly: the early morning call out before finding Danny's body, the cut fence and missing diesel. There was always the possibility of coincidence, but he had a sinking feeling a call to the butcher Nigel had mentioned would all but confirm his story.

Miller was already waiting for him outside his office, overly polished mary janes tapping against the featureless concrete floor. That didn't bode well.

"Get anything out of Wright?" he asked.

"She says she doesn't want him to end up like his dad, that's why she wants him put away," Miller said, fingers tugging at the hem of her suit jacket, as if covering her hands could distance her from the situation.

"Make sense?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, prodding her further for her take on the situation. Something just didn’t quite click with that reasoning, and he had a hunch Miller thought the same.

"Don't know what I'd do," she answered reluctantly.

"He was certainly surprised," Hardy said, marking a post-it note with a reminder to find the butcher's number and give it a ring at a more reasonable hour. Or more likely, pass it off to some unlucky underling during the morning briefing.

"You told him about her family?" Miller asked, words—and presumably Miller herself—growing threateningly closer as he leant over the desk to stick the note against the bottom of his computer monitor.

"Yes?" It was standard procedure to let those accused know of any information with bearing on the witness.

"I told her I'd let her tell him!" Her expression was thunderous as he turned back to face her. 

"Why'd you do that?" he said, voice getting high and squeaky, the way he usually tried to control but didn't always manage. Her habit of over-promising to those she questioned had raised alarm bells in his mind earlier in the investigation, but now the consequences could be disastrous.

"I was gaining her trust!" she said.

"Well I was gaining his!"

"I can't believe you! That's her family, her life," Miller raged. The raised volume was starting to attract unwanted attention, so Hardy gently made his way around Miller, shutting the door. "I should file a complaint," she finished, whirling around to keep him in view.

"Add it to the list," he said gruffly, starting to pace in the small space left between Miller and his desk.

"We've got to let her go, y'know," Miller said, adding to the ever-growing pile of bad news. "The extension didn't go through."

"God's sake. Don't they understand how important this is?" he said, hand running through his hair, tugging at the strands as if that could pull out the headache.

"Doesn't matter."

A frustrated noise caught somewhere in the back of his throat, and he stopped the pacing, head spinning just a bit too much to be comfortable. Burying his face in his hands, he both steadied himself and came up with a makeshift plan. There was no way Miller would like this. 

"Alright. Let her go. Make her log her passport and come check in tomorrow. Nige too." He looked out at the half-empty office. "I'll clobber some sort of surveillance together from what resources we have left."

"Both of them?" Miller asked.

"Quickest way to find out the truth. See what they do when we let them go."

"So that's your brilliant idea? Let who might well be a murderer go and just wait to see if he goes and does it again?"

"Do you have a better option?" When all she did was glower back at him, Hardy continued, "You deal with Wright, I'll handle Nigel."

The paperwork to make that happen was depressingly easy to procure, missed doorknobs on the way to do so notwithstanding. Miller had Wright ushered out the back and reunited with her dog—much to both of their delight, if the gushings of 'good boy' and wagging tail were any indication.

He, on the other hand, had the joy of letting Nigel go. Nige's eyes had gotten rubbed raw and red since Hardy had left him, the newspaper clippings and police photos messily spread across the table. The information about his family had apparently sunk in. He was mildly surprised and suspicious at Hardy's short authoritative commands, but signed himself out with minimal reluctance. 

There was a small delay worked into their releases, Hardy walking Nige out the front doors a good fifteen minutes after Miller had sent Wright on her way. The second of two unmarked cars—staffed with hastily recruited DCs—took off at a small nod from Hardy as he closed the glass door behind him.

Miller was still very much against his plan, if the glare of disapproval as she packed her bag and headed out for the night meant anything. Going back to the Trader's was out of the question with the looming medical in the morning. If he wasn't going to be allowed back he'd be damned if he wasted a second he had left.

Getting his hands on a copy of the tape from Miller's morning interview was an unfortunate but expected bureaucratic hassle. Once obtained, it was easy enough to drag and set up one of the portable cassette players into his office. Hitting play, he set the volume just low enough to still be intelligible and curled up on his shitty couch. Things may change, but uncomfortable office furniture was forever. 

Jacket draped backward over his shoulders as a makeshift blanket, his eyes fell on the framed image set on the opposite wall—a view of the ocean from the top of one of the nearby cliffs. Even inside he couldn't escape the omnipresence of the sea, its prevalence in the basic interior design of the nearby area determined to never let him go more than a moment without a constant reminder of the ever-turning tides. 

The musing thought jolted him back to the present as he realized he hadn't been paying attention to the tape. With a small groan, he extracted a hand from the warm ball he had made, tediously rewinding just to press play once again. Focusing on the tape this time, his eyes fell back on the picture. The ocean waves slowly grew fuzzy, starting to move as he drifted. 

That was how Jenkinson found him in the morning, tape having long run out and little more than the quiet hum of the power supply emanating from the player's speakers. He gave a small stir at her knock, but failed to come back to himself completely until she let herself in. 

"Medical was expecting you fifteen minutes ago," she said.

Hardy's mouth failed to form words, drawing itself into a poorly suppressed yawn. "Sorry. Yeah," he mumbled out from behind his hand once it was over. 

She wordlessly waited as he scrubbed a hand through his hair and pulled himself off the couch. He left his suit jacket crumpled in the corner; it'd need to come off for the exam anyway. 

He gave the room a once over before stepping out. The small desk light must have betrayed his presence. He clicked it off and let Jenkinson escort him down to the force medical examiner.

The walk was short, and he spent more of it focused on trying to discreetly stretch out his back than noticing the side glances he must have gotten. A small part of him wondered how much of the skirting around them was due to the presence of two high ranking officers versus the wreck he must look. 

Jenkinson led him all the way to the door; it was clear she wouldn't leave until he'd stepped inside. Fair, but harsh. Embarrassingly, he hadn't managed to make his way into this section of the building, and he wouldn't be surprised if that was part of the reason why Jenkinson had led him here. Yet considering his avoidance of anything past just dealing with his arrhythmia—dealing perhaps a bit of an exaggeration—it really wasn't that surprising. 

The room was tiny, a combined office and treatment area, with only a small room divider for a bit of privacy if someone was to be laid out on the bed. Hardy doubted it had seen much use, other than the occasional bump or scrape on a suspect. And check-ups, his brain helpfully added. He stopped partially through the automatic process of quashing that thought back into its box, giving up on the compartmentalization. It would have come up at some point anyway. He could've only hidden it for five years max anyway, and the only way he would've even gotten that long was if a whole bunch of paperwork got miraculously lost in his transfer. 

"Ah, you must be here for the exam."

The forensic medical examiner was a kindly middle-aged man, probably around a decade on from Hardy. Hardy was unable to make out the nameplate on the cluttered desk as he was quickly swept over and sat on the bed.

The speed of which the exam started was disconcerting, a marked contrast to the extended waits at most offices. Eyes following a light, mouth open and tongue out. Too soon, his shirt unbuttoned and a stethoscope pressed against his chest. Deep breaths in and out. A running mantra to stay calm, and maybe everything would be fine.

The cold metal moved from one side to the other, and his heart gave a traitorous flutter. Hardy's eyes snapped to the doctor's face, unable to scrutinize any reaction. More breaths in and out. Clinical hands applying light pressure on his throat, and then he was released to clean himself up. The doctor picked up his chart, frown growing as Hardy lazily knotted his tie back up. The notes from his gp were damning enough, even if his recent hospital visits hadn't made it onto his file. 

"I'm sorry but you're not fit for active duty," the doctor said, face pulled into a vaguely sympathetic look. Was that what his face looked like when he was sent on death notices? This was as good as one, at least for his career. "Perhaps after a pacemaker's been fitted there can be another discussion about your options."

"I understand," Hardy said numbly. Understanding didn't make it any less crushing. 

The rest of the doctor's advice filtered in one ear and out the other, the same refrain he'd heard a million times: reduce stress, no unnecessary exertion, avoid caffeine and fatty foods. He resisted the urge to mouth along. There was likely a crumpled up care sheet with the same instructions somewhere at the bottom of his jacket pocket. 

He took the silence at the end of the lecture as a cue to leave, a mumbled 'thanks' floating in his wake. 

Jenkinson was in the hallway, just far enough away to maintain the illusion of privacy while making it clear that she was waiting. He knew he couldn't just brush past, and his long strides slowed to a crawl as he approached. 

She once again didn't say anything, leaving the two of them to stew in awkward silence until one of them cracked. 

Silence wasn't usually an issue for Hardy, but this one weighed heavier than most. What was it with supervisors and forcing you to admit things with looks and silence? But that was a bit hypocritical of him, knowing he'd used the same tactic. He gave a mental shrug. Hazard of the occupation. 

Eventually Jenkinson broke. "Are you going to make this difficult?"

Hardy held back a wince. "No."

"I assume you didn't take my advice yesterday." When Hardy failed to do more than look at her quizzically, Jenkinson sighed. "Packing."

He had the decency to look abashed, conversation having slipped his mind with all that had happened yesterday. 

Once again his lack of verbal response provoked Jenkinson into speaking. "You can drop off your badge in either my office or the front desk. Just, make it quick."

⧗

There was precious little to pack, office devoid of the personal knickknacks naturally accumulated through time. A stack of Sandbrook files sat in a neglected pile off to the side of the couch, brought in optimistically during his first slow weeks stationed here with the thought he'd have time to review them. They fit neatly into a box, corners squaring evenly with only a sliver of cardboard peeking out on one side.

Next came the stack of drawings hidden in one of the lower drawers. Daisy had happily drawn and stuck them across his old office on the days minders had fallen through, but he didn't have the heart to throw them out—or stick them back up. That would only invite questions he still wasn't comfortable answering. And Daisy had scoffed at them the last time she'd been around his old office anyway. 

What other items that had made their way over from his hotel room got stuffed on top.

He barely got the box a few inches off his desk before it came thudding back down. Eyeing it angrily, he slid it to the edge of the desk, bracing the box against his side in hopes the different weight distribution would help.

A few steps and it once again slipped from his grip, tumbling to the ground. Thankfully there was nothing breakable. Some pages spilled out, and the thermos Miller had gifted him rolled across the floor, hitting the leg of his desk and settling mostly underneath. 

The gifter in question managed to sneak up behind him as he was stooped over, clumsily reaching under the desk to retrieve the thermos.

"Everything alright?"

He sat up quickly, banging his head on the lip of the desk with a pained huff. Miller made no mention of it, so he safely assumed she'd somehow missed that. 

"'m fine," he said, extracting himself and the thermos from under the desk. He smothered the urge to rub at the new tenderness at the back of his head, knowing she would make a fuss of it if she knew.

Miller was unusually fidgety, hovering on the edge of coming inside. She hadn't ever been like that with him while they'd worked together, other than the time she'd tried to bring up Sandbrook. 

"Having trouble moving?" she asked.

"I'll manage." Maybe it was misplaced guilt over her role in his dismissal. That'd be better than pity. Anything was better than pity.

He shifted into a more stable crouch, and started repacking the box. She seemed content to watch as he finished up.

Lift with the legs, not the back, he told himself as he tried and failed to stand with the box. Neither legs nor back, apparently, his inner monologue taunted.

Miller broke her stance as an impartial observer with something mumbled under her breath. Knowing her, it was likely an insult. "You can ask for help. Joe's likely free. He can give you a lift over to the Trader's."

"I'll be alright, Miller," he argued hopelessly. She was already on the phone. 

Resigning himself to his fate, he sat back, allowing himself to lean his weight on the desk leg behind him. His legs were just barely out of the door's swing radius when fully stretched out. 

"I'll give you a shout once he's here," Miller said, evidently having easily arranged transport. 

"You didn't have to." Saying thanks felt like a line they had never crossed. 

"Nonsense. Gives me an excuse to see Freddy, anyway." Ellie gave him one of those megawatt grins that seemed to come to her as easily as breathing. They'd grown rarer the longer the case had drawn on, especially after these combative last few days, and were almost never directed at him. Although this one was likely not directed at him, but at the thought of seeing her child again. He couldn't begrudge her that, Daisy one of the only surefire ways to make him smile.

She'd left at some point after his thoughts had gone spiraling. He should probably find another box and try splitting the weight before Joe got here; he didn't need another highlight on why he was useless. And around here boxes should be easy enough to find.

Just a moment. He didn't want to move. 

That moment stretched out further than he intended, ended by Miller and her husband poking their heads in. 

"Need a hand, mate?" Joe said as he welcomed himself in, Miller apparently satisfied with dropping him off. He extended a hand, offering to help Hardy off the floor.

Hardy was immediately wary; Joe was a civilian, and this area was generally restricted. Then again, this was a small town, and lax rules were not unthinkable. And he was so tired.

He took Joe's offered hand, and was lifted to his feet with more force than he expected, sent nearly stumbling into Joe's chest. 

"It's just the one box," Hardy said quietly.

"No problem." As if sensing Hardy's self-consciousness at his current weakness, Joe slipped only one hand into the box's handles, inviting Hardy to take the other side. Together they lifted and carried it out of the station. 

Once at the car, Joe took the box and slid into the portion of the backseat not taken up by car seat. Hardy grimaced. He still had to drop off his badge.

"I'll be right back." Hardy broke into a light jog, not wanting to waste more of Joe's time than needed. Bad idea. It was a struggle to keep it up until Joe was out of view. He instead settled into the briskest walk he could manage. 

"Hi." Slightly out of breath, he handed his badge over. There was no way he'd choose Jenkinson out of his options, as she'd likely give him some sort of speech about doing a good job. She was further away, anyway.

Jenkinson had gotten word to the front desk, and the girl on duty accepted it with little more than a sad smile. 

He turned to walk back to the car, only to be stopped by her reedy voice.

"Um... your ID?"

Unclipping it from his belt loop, he handed it over as well. The lack of it swinging against his thigh was more pronounced then it should have been, a glaring reminder with every step he took. 

Joe was waiting in the underground lot where he'd parked, leant against the driver's side door. He got inside as Hardy came back into view, and Hardy took the front seat—the only other one available. 

There were no attempts at conversation as Joe concentrated on navigating his way out of the cramped space. The streets, on the other hand, were fair game. 

"No luck then, eh?" Joe tried.

Hardy's jaw tightened. This was the main reason he didn't want help. "No." Perhaps a bit shorter than advisable, but that was as far as Hardy was willing to go with being outright aggressive.

"Do you think they'll find him?"

Hardy slowly let out a breath from between his lips. The Trader's was just around the harbor. "Don't know," he said. He let the words hang in the air, before continuing. "Don't tell Miller, but she's good. There's still a chance."

Joe laughed. "Mum's the word."

Hardy let a frail smile grow in response. 

Too soon Joe was pulling to the side of the street in front of the Trader's.

"I can handle it from here," Hardy said, unfolding his limbs from the seat that was a bit too far forward to be comfortable.

"Ellie told me about your condition, let me lend a hand. Just don't write me up for parking illegally, alright?"

"There's no need—"

"Paramedic, remember? Now where's your room." Joe said, easily swinging the box out of the car and into his arms. 

Hardy awkwardly made his way into the Trader's with Joe on his heels. "Just up the steps."

Joe's cheerful presence was smothering, enveloping the space between them, making any distance uncomfortably close. 

"Right here," Hardy said, stopping in front of his door. He fumbled with the key—Becca had trusted him with it after his pathetic attempt at a chat-up line, likely to avoid any more interaction. At least he doesn't have to stop by the front desk anymore.

He opened it and held out a hand invitingly, letting Joe step in first.

"Bit sparse, innit?" he said, putting the box down on the carpet near the armchair. 

Hardy shrugged. It wasn't home, but nowhere really was at this point. Home was a concept that existed solely in the past.

Joe brushed his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and straightened up. He smiled at Hardy, not anywhere near as bright as Miller, but similar enough that Hardy could see how the two of them fit together so well. "Well, see you around."

"Yep," Hardy said, following Joe to the door and closing it after he left.

Then the energy he'd somehow gained in the presence of another person drained out, seeping out and in through the carpets, down into the foundations of the building and further and further away. Part of him wished he could sink away too. 

He'd broken another promise to another broken family. At this point, all that was left was to sweep up the shards and add them to his growing pile. Or, more accurately, pick them up piece by piece, letting them cut his hands on their jagged edges, as if more blood could somehow wash away the pain.

He should go tell the Latimers himself, give them the courtesy of looking them in the eye as they found out he had failed them. Perhaps they'd be disgusted, perhaps they were already expecting it. His reputation certainly lent credence to this result.

The grief over another child dead without answers grew. He strangled the coming scream somewhere deep inside; the walls were paper thin under their fancy prints. 

Instead, he flopped down onto the bed face first, into more pillows than any one person could conceivably need, creasing the perfectly folded bedding. A sharp breath and a prickling of tears that didn't make it further than his tightly pressed lashes, and the grief faded back to a tolerable level. He felt strangely hollow, as if carving out a part of his identity had left a gaping wound and all of his emotions were spilling out. There was only void, and the cold fact of what he had left: not much. 

He laid in bed and let the dark thoughts engulf him, until the thoughts were gone and all that was left was the dark.

Until he woke up.


End file.
